Below the waves, where sunlight's tender touch dwindles into a distant memory, ancient mechanisms whisper softly. Here, the ocean holds secrets in rust and decay, wrapped in tendrils of brine and time, weaving stories into the very sand beneath.
A voice, the echo of forgotten seas, murmured through woven kelp gardens. The sound was like a chorus of shipwrecked dreams, mingling with the sighs of submerged iron giants. It spun tales of the Cogs, great meshed gears turned by the eternal currents, set far below the abyssal chasms.
Legends say that these Cogs hold wisdom older than the stars, recounting the birth of oceans and the cradle of marine constellations. A rhythm, deliberate and calm, like the heartbeat of the deep.
What propels these titanic mechanisms? When the last of the tides draw breath, will they still turn? The questions linger, unanswered, like an unlit lighthouse on a sunken shore.
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